Yelling Yourself Yellow With Yetis
by Pseudonym Sam
Summary: What happens when you mix the Chinese military, Magizoologists, militant animal rights activists, wizarding bureaucrats, and a mad escaped yeti, besides chaos? YOU YELL YOURSELF YELLOW OF COURSE! Whatever that means...
1. Chapter I: A Flash of Silver

_A native of __Tibet__, the yeti is believed to be related to the troll, though no one has yet got close enough to conduct the necessary tests. Up to fifteen feet in height, it is covered head to foot in purest white hair._

-Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them, _An A-Z of Fantastic Beasts_, p 42

**Chapter I: A Flash of Silver**

Tibet.

The Roof of the World. Land of breathtaking natural beauty. _Xizang__ Zizhiqu_. The Western Lands. The Tibet Autonomous Region. Call it what you like.

To Corporal Cai, it is the closest approximation of hell, or the middle of nowhere at least. It is dull. It is boring. Far western Tibet is a barren, rocky wasteland, and Corporal Cai just happens to be stationed there. _Who did I upset to deserve this?_ he wonders to himself bitterly.

He is in the driver's seat of one of the People's Liberation Army's brand new BJ2022 half-tonne light utility vehicles. Since nobody can remember its actual designation, the big brass in Beijing had named the light 4x4 the "Brave Warrior," and that name is a little optimistic. Firstly, it has no armour or guns mounted on it of any kind. Secondly, who in there right mind actually calls this new vehicle a "Brave Warrior?"

Ridiculous name aside, Corporal Cai drives on the path on top of a rocky plateau. He passes some pointless rocks and boulders, and a few pitiful-looking plants. To the southwest looms the Himalayas, whose jagged snow covered peaks stab at the sky. In every other direction is just more rolling plateau. The only living thing – _apart from himself_ – that Corporal Cai can see is the man in the passenger seat, Private Li.

Unfortunately, the only human contact that he has, Private Li, annoys him.

Impossibly, Private Li looks like he is _enjoying_ himself, of all things. He is smiling and looking at the world passing by. He is taking in deep, satisfying breaths; relishing the cold, crisp mountain air.

The Brave Warrior (_yeah, right_) light utility vehicle approaches an agonisingly familiar ridge. For what feels like the billionth time, Corporal Cai pulls off the path and presses on the brakes; the vehicle comes to a halt. He kills the engine and puts the keys in one of the many pockets in his uniform trousers. Sighing, he clambers out of the driver's seat and plants his feet on the hard ground; Private Li does the same, but just in a more enthusiastic fashion.

_Here we go again,_ thinks Corporal Cai, leaning against the vehicle's driver-side door. Wordlessly, he pulls out a pair of binoculars and scans the barren countryside to the southwest. Of course, there is nothing. Why would there be anything to begin with?

But unfortunately for Corporal Cai, the People's Liberation Army apparently thinks there _is_ something, and that is precisely why he is there. Though he hates to admit it, he can see that it is a perfectly legitimate reason. To the southwest is China's border with India, and in late 1962, the two countries went to war against each other, fighting over worthless bits of mountain territory. Just to the north of Corporal Cai is the Aksai Chin region, which was taken from India in that war. The Indians still lay claim to it, and that justifies the Chinese military presence there.

Though he is trapped in the mind-numbing monotony of patrolling the desolate border, Corporal Cai is at least thankful that the Indian Army is making no moves to take back what it had lost more than fifty years ago in that thoroughly pointless conflict. He gazes at the border with his binoculars, just seeing the usual rocks and mountains…

Corporal Cai hears whistling in his ear, but it is not the frigid winds that periodically sweep across the bleak plateau. It is Private Li, puckering his lips and whistling, and it is the most irritating thing Corporal Cai had ever heard.

After about of minute of suffering through the irksome musical interlude (it didn't _deserve_ to be called that), Corporal Cai lowers his binoculars and looks at Private Li with his eyes narrowed.

It takes a moment for his companion to realise his superior is staring at him. Private Li finally stops whistling and also lowers the binoculars he had been using. "It's beautiful country, isn't it _Yi Ji Shi Guan_ Cai?" he says, misinterpreting Corporal Cai's cold silence totally.

"No it isn't. This place is cold and barren and boring," Corporal Cai replies, though he knows there is nothing he can do to change his stupid companion's thoughts.

"Well, sir, I like this place," says Private Li. "I think it is beautiful. Just look at those mountains, sir. They're the tallest in the world!"

"Like I care, _Lie Bing_ Li," retorts Corporal Cai, putting scorn into the name of his rank: Private. It is just a nicer way of saying he has no rank at all – a nobody.

Though Private Li may be irritating and stupid, he at least understands Corporal Cai's dismissal. He says nothing more and returns to looking at the Indian border through his binoculars, as does his superior officer.

More dull minutes pass by, and Corporal Cai checks his watch. It is thirteen o'clock in the morning, and they had been on watch for a half hour. _Time for status report_.

He inserts his binoculars into its carrying case around his neck. Corporal Cai opens the door of the light utility vehicle and reaches over to the radio attached to the curly black cord.

"Homebase. This is Corporal Cai, calling for status report at point B5. Do you read me?"

"Yes, I hear you," says Major Chong's voice, muffled by the radio's speaker and the kilometres separating the Corporal from home base. "Do you have anything to report?"

"No. There's no activity at the border."

"All right. Proceed with your patrol, Corporal," orders Major Chong, and then the radio reverts back to static.

Corporal Cai seats himself in the driver's seat again and snaps the door shut. He beckons for Private Li to follow suit, and once he's inside the vehicle, Corporal Cai starts the engine.

With a clashing of gears and crunching of gravel, he drives back onto the path to go to the next observation spot. The terrain along the way to his destination is rougher than the previous stretch, forcing Corporal Cai to pay greater attention to the path, much to his chagrin. He passes the intimately familiar rocks and gullies–

Just at the edge of his peripheral vision, Corporal Cai sees a flash of silver.

He continues driving, but then does a double take. He looks to his left… and the source of the brilliant silver flash is nowhere to be seen. Had he simply seen a reflection, or had it been a figment of–

"Look out!" yells Private Li.

Corporal Cai reverts his gaze to the path and is immediately horrified at what he sees. Even in dull, desolate Tibet, he still has to watch where he is driving; the light utility vehicle is picking up speed as they go down a slope, and it is heading straight for a sizable rock…

"Whoa!" he exclaims, slamming on the brakes and jerking the wheel. It is to no avail. The vehicle simply skids at high speed and the locked front wheels do nothing to alter its course–

CRUNCH!

The front left wheel of the LUV crashes into the boulder, and there is twisting of metal. With that corner suddenly stopped, the rest of the vehicle continues; the rear swings out to the right and the left wheels leave the ground…

_"Wo kao!"_ Corporal Cai swears as he feels the horrible sense of weightlessness in his gut.

After its lopsided leap into the air, the vehicle lands on its side instead of its back, thanks to the roller cage. With a cloud of dust after scraping out a long trough of gravel, the LUV comes to a stop.

The two soldiers belted to the seats cough, trying to expel the dust they had inhaled in their harrowing ordeal. "Are you all right?" Corporal Cai wheezes to his companion. He nods.

They unbuckle their seat belts and clamber out of what used to be the top of the light utility vehicle. Once out, Corporal Cai inspects the damage. The 4x4 lies pitifully on its side, and both the front left wheel and its axle is bent and buckled.

_"Ta ma de!"_ breaths Corporal Cai unhappily. He is now in a world of trouble.

"Well," says Private Li, relieved, "that was lucky. I'm glad we came out of this in one piece!"

Corporal Cai cannot believe his companion's stupidity. "Lucky? Are you insane? This is a _brand new_ BJ2022 Brave Warrior light utility vehicle! This is People's Liberation Army _property_, and we wrecked it! We're going to need a fantastically good excuse for this; don't you see how much deep shit we're in?"

"But surely, it was an accident–" reasons Private Li.

Corporal Cai interrupts with a frustrated groan and he mentally curses the stupid private he is stuck with. Then his thoughts return to the wrecked vehicle and what had caused the crash…

He looks to the southwest, searching for the source of the flash that had distracted him. Corporal Cai desperately needs to find it: being distracted by a figment of his imagination is not a very good excuse for damaging and capsizing an Army car.

Corporal Cai jogs up to the top of the slope they had hurtled down a few minutes before. "Where are you going?" asks Private Li, huffing and puffing in his effort to keep up.

Corporal Cai doesn't answer, but instead pulls out his binoculars and for the first time in his life, he scans the landscape in earnest. Unsure of what they are looking for, his companion tentatively searches with his binoculars too. Corporal Cai adjusts the magnification, zooming in and out, examining rocks and boulders–

There is a blur of movement, and it disappears as quickly as it came. Corporal Cai frantically jerks his binoculars in the direction of the… _whatever it is_, but loses his bearings. Cursing to himself, he lowers the binoculars and reverts to the standard issue Type One eyeball. He squints at the rocks in the distance…

"There!" shouts Private Li, pointing at a rock about three hundred metres away. There is something hiding behind it, something with a silver sheen…

Corporal Cai whips out his binoculars yet again and looks at the person hiding behind the rock. A very large person…

The large person seems to notice that he is being watched. But instead of running away or putting a little more effort into hiding, he stands erect and bellows a resounding grunt. It is soon apparent that it is not a _he_, but more of an _it_, and that _it_ is a giant figure over five metres high and covered in purest, white hair.

Corporal Cai had never believed the stories and the rumours, but right in front of him is the Yeti itself, and it is _very_ real indeed. And that very real Yeti is running right at him!

"Ah, crap! Run!" he exclaims as he sprints in retreat down the gravely path. "Get the guns!"

He and the Private had left their guns in the LUV, since they had long ago figured they would never need them. They are proven wrong. Corporal Cai takes a quick glance over his shoulder at the bellowing Yeti giving chase: it is covering ground with frightening speed, taking huge strides. The sunlight reflecting off its white hair makes it ripple and shine–

Corporal Cai stops running and skids to a stop by the overturned vehicle. He grabs one of the QBZ-95 assault rifles lying on the passenger door and several curved magazines, stuffing them rather awkwardly into his pockets. He takes one of the magazines and roughly jams it into the magazine well. He yanks on the cocking handle and aims at the charging hairy troll-like creature.

_Click!_

Private Li stands about ten metres away from the 4x4, and he opens fire once the Yeti is barely fifty metres away from them. There is a rattling bark and a series of bright yellow flashes from the muzzle. The Yeti roars angrily and bounds straight for its tormentor.

Meanwhile Corporal Cai frantically jacks the charging handle back and forth, trying to clear the jam. After a few tries, his gun spits out a slightly bent cartridge, and the bolt returns to its position with a satisfying metallic _snick!_

Private Li screams. The Yeti grabs his body with both hands and rips him in half, as easily as tearing a piece of paper! The creature then begins to feast, chomping on a leg–

"OH FUCK!" Corporal Cai screams. He aims his QBZ-95 at the Yeti's head and empties the entire magazine. "_Cao ni zuzong shiba dai_, bastard!"

The bullets pound into the Yeti's white head, but it only serves to irritate the massive brute; it turns to face Corporal Cai and stares at him with murder in its eyes. Blood mars its perfect gleaming coat, trickling down from bullet wounds and from the mouth that had been eating Private Li's leg.

The beast roars as it charges at Corporal Cai, who runs backwards as he reloads his rifle. He rips out the empty magazine, replaces it with a new one, and shoots at the Yeti, but that only makes it angrier!

Corporal Cai's foot hits a rock and he falls painfully to the ground. The Yeti lunges and there is a flash of sharp claws…

* * *

"Where the hell is everybody?" Erick Schicklgruber complained to the only person who had showed up for work that day – _himself_. He had a very important job to do, and there was no way he could do it alone.

Why had all the Tibetans suddenly decide to take the day off? Erick had no idea, but he had no time to waste. _I better get paid overtime for this_, he thought to himself, flustered and annoyed.

Erick scrawled a quick note to his boss, pointed his wand at it, and folded itself into a paper aeroplane to fly over to the office. Erick then mounted his broomstick (_A Volksbesen 2005 model with a built-in compass, altimeter, speedometer, and wind-buffering charm; complete with a two year warranty, money back guaranteed!_) and kicked off.

The air was bitter and cold, stinging at his face as he flew over the desolate Tibetan landscape. His eyes swept side to side, searching for the familiar hairy troll-like creatures. How, exactly, was he supposed to patrol the entire perimeter of the yeti preserve by himself?

He patrolled the border of the preserve anyway, and there was no sign of any of the yetis. That was typical: they usually stayed in their caves until they got hungry and ventured outside to hunt everything from goats to hapless Muggles, which would be a serious breach of Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Therefore, the International Confederation of Wizards had a permanent task force of natives and foreign wizards stationed at the several yeti preserves scattered across Tibet.

However, there was no point to _Yeti Task Force Gamma_ if only ten percent of the staff bothered to show up. There would be huge gaps in the perimeter. What if one got loose and wandered near the Muggle military installation nearby? Erick didn't want to think about it. At the very least, he would have to fill out a _lot_ of paperwork.

But at least the blame wouldn't fall on _him_. That was a comforting thought…

His mind-numbing shift flew by and ended without incident; no sign of any yetis. He so wanted to leave right then, but being the only person on duty at the preserve forced him to continue. The hours crawled by…

It took Erick a moment to notice the gleaming white speck in the distance. Once he comprehended the sight he saw, he sped towards it on his Volksbesen 2005.

There it was: Yeti Number Three, the biggest and meanest yeti at the preserve. Though its official name was just a number, someone a few years ago had named it _Fat Angry Bastard_, and the name "Fabby" had stuck. Nobody had gotten close enough to determine Fabby's sex, but Erick thought it was probably a male.

Fabby was well outside the preserve border, and he had apparently lived up to his homicidally aggressive tendencies: parts of his coat were streaked with red, and he was carrying a bloody carcass under each arm. _Just great. What did he kill this time?_

Erick kept his distance, knowing full well that interrupting a hungry yeti with its meal was an invitation to suicide. Even in normal circumstances, it was useless to try and herd him back into the preserve, since that required bait and at least a group of five. Since Erick had neither, all he could do was mark its position on a map and take several pictures of the massive brute with his camera. He gave the lenses a twist for a closer picture...

_"Scheiße,"_ Erick swore to himself. Fabby the mad yeti wasn't carrying two carcasses: he was carrying one that was in two pieces, and that carcass just happened to be human. _There goes Clause 73_…

Since he couldn't do anything about Fabby, Erick instead searched for the source of the human body, and soon enough he found an overturned Muggle car lying at the bottom of a slope. Erick flew towards it and touched down, scattering gravel with his feet upon landing.

The grey-green car was on its side and the front left end was punched in, suggesting that Fabby had attacked it while the Muggles were driving by. The bent and buckled Muggle vehicle wasn't the only casualty, however.

Lying about twenty feet away from the car was another twisted, mutilated human corpse in several pieces: Fabby's grisly handiwork. The yeti had made a very messy job of eating about half of the Muggle, leaving the remaining malodorous shreds to the ants and flies that swarmed around it. _Don't I have a wonderful job?_

Erick had vomited spectacularly the first time he saw a half-eaten person, but he no longer felt that impulse after having worked at the preserve for the last five years. However, that didn't mean that the corpse's sight and stench wasn't horrible; nothing short of a memory modification would alleviate the awful picture that had been etched into his head.

He took a deep breath. He exhaled. He took in another deep breath. He avoided looking at what was once a human being, but the smell was inescapable. _How disgusting_, he told himself. _It's not pretty, but that's what yetis do. Now deal with it._

But how would he deal with it, creating a Muggle-worthy explanation for the scene? Usually yeti and giant encounters were passed off as mountaineering accidents, but that wouldn't work here. First, the plateau wasn't steep enough. Second, mountaineering accidents didn't rip Muggles to shreds. He would have to come up with something better than that…

Erick did a _Homenum Revelio_ spell and found no other living or freshly dead human presence, which didn't surprise him. He then spotted an odd black contraption lying on the ground next to the carcass. The object had a long rectangular body with a thin tube sticking out of one end. On the top (or was it the bottom?) there was a sort of long handle, and on the bottom was a hand grip of a sort, with a funny curved projection behind it. Erick jogged his memory, trying to remember what the object was…

He couldn't remember the name, but he recalled that the Muggle contraption was used by Muggles to kill each other with. _How_, exactly? Erick had no idea.

Just then, inspiration struck.

The dead Muggles were carrying the weapon-devices, which meant they were Army Muggles from the installation about fifty miles to the northeast. And if it was the job of Army Muggles to kill people, he'd just make it look like there was some kind of fight. Simple!

Erick pointed his wand at the Muggle corpse and looked away, knowing full well that the result of his action would be unsightly, to put it lightly.

_"Confringo!"_

There was a blast of hot air and a spattering of scattered dirt and gravel. Erick knew that Muggles liked blowing things up, so some kind of explosion would be the perfect pretext. He next pointed his wand at the overturned car and said, _"Incendio!"_

There was a pitiful wisp of flame and smoke from the metal vehicle, but then _whump!_ It was consumed by a huge fireball and became a towering inferno. There was a pungent, oily smell; and the smoke was dense and black.

Off in the distance, there was a column of grey-green cars driving down the path, heading in Erick's direction. _Time to go_, he told himself as he mounted his broomstick and sped off.

* * *

The patrol stopped near the capsized and burning LUV. Major Chong Yi An motioned to the other soldiers, and they dismounted and formed a perimeter about the scene. The Major himself then climbed out of the lead Brave Warrior, and examined the sight before him grimly.

He took pictures of the wreaked vehicle and… the horrible remnants of either Corporal Cai or Private Li. He didn't have to bear the sight and smell for long, because two soldiers scooped up the torn pieces and slid them into a body bag for examination and some kind of burial later. _Poor bastard... I hope it was over quickly,_ Yi An thought to himself.

About fifteen metres away from the first body was a dark, congealed stain in the rocky ground: Someone had lost a _lot_ of blood, but the body was nowhere to be found. Major Chong snapped a few more photographs for evidence before he and the rest of the men returned to their vehicles.

The column of Brave Warriors left the smouldering one behind and headed back to base, and after two hours of driving over the rocky ground, they returned to the compound before sundown. Major Chong examined the mangled corpse they had recovered (he didn't have an appetite following that) and once done, he hurried over to the Colonel's office and seated himself in front of the commander's desk.

"Hello, Yi An," Colonel Deng Jianguo said to him, ignoring the formalities as he usually did. "What is the news of that missing patrol?"

Major Chong sighed. "They're both dead," he answered, and Jianguo sadly shook his head. "As you know, the last we heard from Corporal Cai and Private Li was at 13.00 at point B5, and they then proceeded to point B6. However, we found their vehicle en route to B6.

"So what happened?" asked the Colonel.

"I'm… not sure. Whatever happened must have happened at around 13.15 or so while they were driving to the next observation post. We found their Brave Warrior lying on its side with the front left corner bent in, suggesting they crashed into a boulder at speed. However, the thing caught fire and the petrol tank blew up when our search party was barely a kilometre away, and that was eighteen o'clock."

"That's odd…" commented Colonel Deng, his head nodding in thought. "So why would the vehicle's petrol blow up five hours after they crashed it?"

Yi An answered that he had no idea. The Colonel then asked him about the fates of Corporal Cai and Private Li. Major Chong replied, "I'm not sure. We couldn't identify one of the bodies, but we brought the remains back with us."

"Remains?"

Major Chong shifted uncomfortably, remembering the ghastly human corpse. "One of the two soldiers was blown to pieces by an explosion of some sort. We couldn't find the other body, but there was a large splat of dried blood apart from the first body, so I think that was the second soldier's blood."

Yi An continued, "Parts of the first corpse had no signs of burns, and the blood had already blackened and congealed. However, other parts of the first corpse were still warm from an explosion and had fresh blood on it."

After a moment, the Colonel replied, "So you are saying that that he had been ripped apart at 13.00 and then again by an explosion at 18.00?" As incredulous as it sounded, Yi An had to answer "Yes."

"But that's not the end of it," Major Chong said. "We found both of their rifles lying next to where they died, along with a couple of magazine's worth of spent ammunition. They must have been attacked by someone, but the explosion sequences still make no sense at all."

Colonel Deng Jianguo was immersed in his thoughts as he took in that information, tapping his fingers on his desk. "Any theories?" he inquired after a moment's silence.

"Well, it probably isn't the Indian Army; I'm sure of that. Do you think it could be the Tibetans? I heard that yesterday there was some kind of riot in Lhasa that killed ten people."

There was a short pause. "That's a possibility," said Colonel Deng, "but if it was Tibetan rebels, wouldn't they have taken Corporal Cai's and Private Li's guns? And do you honestly think Tibetans would tear one of our men apart and steal the second body?"

"No. Also, don't only about twenty Tibetans live within our patrol areas to begin with? It seems awfully foolish for so few people to make trouble here."

Colonel Deng Jianguo agreed. The two officers sat there on opposite sides of the desk, pondering the bizarre deaths of the two soldiers. Yi An suggested that perhaps Corporal Cai had finally cracked and killed his companion, and then somehow ripped himself apart and later blew himself up along with the car, but he knew that theory was wrong the moment he said it. He couldn't think of anything that even remotely explained what had happened.

"Well, there's always the Yeti," Colonel Deng said lightly after a long moment of thought. Major Chong smiled. It was an ongoing joke at the base to blame anything out of the ordinary on the mysterious Yeti that some people claimed lived in the area. One of the men in the garrison, Private Chiu, resolutely claimed that he had seen the beast three years earlier. Then again, he was a little mad.

"Well, _of course_ it was a Yeti attack," joked Yi An. "Then a Ministry of State Security agent came by and botched the evidence just to drive us insane."

Jianguo nodded and appeared to be seriously considering that. "Naturally," he said with a smile.

* * *

**Notes**

There are probably a few things that made no sense in this chapter, so I'll elaborate (in order of appearance):

**BJ2022 "Brave Warrior" Light Utility Vehicle:** This is four-wheel drive, half-tonne, general purpose vehicle now entering service in the People's Liberation Army as of 2007. It is open topped with a retractable canvas roof that can be stretched over the roll cage.

**People's Liberation Army:** Believe it or not, this is the actual name of the People's Republic of China's military. The People's Liberation Army is currently the largest military force in the world, with 2.3 million active troops.

**_Yi Ji Shi Guan; Lie Bing_:** These are the Mandarin words for Corporal and Private, respectively.

**Thirteen O'clock**** in the Morning:** The People's Republic of China covers five time zones, but there is only one official time zone: Beijing time, or China Standard Time, which is eight hours ahead of the Greenwich Mean Time (GMT). No matter where you are, every clock in China is set to Beijing time, even if it makes no sense to do so. This story takes place near the Aksai Chin region in the far west of China, which is about five and a half hours ahead of the GMT. Therefore, 13.00 (Beijing time) is actually 10.30 in the local time.

**_Wo kao; Ta ma de; Cao ni zuzong shiba dai_:** These are Chinese swear words, and I'll just leave it at that.

**QBZ-95 Assault Rifle:** This is the latest assault rifle to join the People's Liberation Army, and is now standard. It utilises a "bullpup" configuration (having the firing mechanism behind the trigger instead of in front), making it a relatively short firearm but still retaining a full-length barrel. It fires the 5.8 millimetre Chinese round, and has a magazine capacity of thirty rounds.

**And now, an amazing preview of the next chapter…**

_"Dude! Don't drink that! It's a Molotov cocktail!"_


	2. Chapter II: Magic Pixie Dust, Man!

_Muggle sightings of the yeti have been so numerous that the International Confederation of Wizards felt it necessary to station an International Task Force in the mountains on a permanent basis._

-Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them, _Magical Beasts in Hiding_, p xvii

**Chapter II: Magic Pixie Dust, Man!**

"Dude! Don't drink that! It's a Molotov cocktail!" Hunter shouted at his larger and very inebriated companion.

The only part of that sentence that Bob understood was "cocktail," and that only got him even more exited. He yanked out the rag wick closing the bottle's neck, and proceeded to down the petrol–

"Jesus Christ, Bob!" Hunter yelled, swiping the bottle out of his hands. "Can't you tell that's gasoline?"

Bob's eyes swam lazily in circles, and he seemed about to pass out. Then–

"_Bbluurrrrpppp!_ Whoooaaa… thablatt's some pplub-owerful s-shit, man! Where'd yuh geddit?" Bob asked, somehow managing to make himself understood.

Hunter didn't answer, and instead slapped Bob hard on the cheek ("WTF!" he yelped). "Snap out of it!" Hunter barked. "We're here to blow up some SUVs tonight! Remember? That's what the Molotov cocktails are for!"

Bob shook his head vigorously and blinked a few times. "Oh… _yeah_," he mumbled. The pair needed some empty bottles to make their firebombs out of a few hours earlier, and Bob had enthusiastically provided that service by drinking four bottles of Guinness in one go. He had a _very_ strong stomach, needless to say.

Hunter led the staggering Bob to the GM dealership where the despicable Hummer H2s were on display. Soon they would never have buyers; Hunter would make sure of that. Those stupid SUVs polluted the environment like no other car, and its users drove them through pristine forests, ruining habitats of inoffensive animals! Also, those _Sports Utility Vehicles_ got thirteen miles to the gallon _at best!_ No wonder gas prices were so high!

Neither Hunter nor Bob saw the irony in using some of that very expensive fuel to light those Hummer H2s on fire, or the fact that they were polluting the environment with the infernos they were about to create. Hunter pulled out a cigarette lighter and lit the petrol-soaked wick–

"WOOHOO! ENVIRONMENT LIBERATION FRONT, BABY! DEATH TO HUMMERS!" he shouted as he threw his Molotov cocktails through the shattering windows of the SUVs. Bob was also yelling, but his drunkenness made him unintelligible.

CRASH!

_WHUMP!_

The firebombs shattered, spreading petrol all over the leather seats of the stupidly large vehicles, and not a moment later, the flaming wicks ignited the liquid. Within seconds, all four Hummers at the dealership were blazing fireballs once the fuel tanks ignited.

The eerie wails of the San Francisco Police Department sirens were getting closer, increasingly audible over the crackling of the flaming SUVs. The two ran from the scene; Hunter grabbed the staggering Bob and unceremoniously threw him into his little (_and fuel efficient!_) compact car and drove off into the night.

The built-up steel urban jungle of San Francisco flew by, and within a half hour they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to safety. Just to throw off anybody chasing them, Hunter drove around in circles, taking a thoroughly stupid route to The Boss' house: headquarters.

"Password?" a gruff voice inquired through the mail slot in the front door once they had arrived at the steps.

_"Blaaabbb!"_ retched Bob, hurling out the alcohol and petrol he had ingested on the WELCOME mat.

"Nope. Try again," responded the password-checker's voice, heavy with sarcasm.

"California Condor," Hunter said (the password was always some endangered species) and the door was opened for him to drag Bob inside, who finally passed out on the hallway floor.

Hunter left Bob there and proceeded to the dining room. The Boss was sitting at the end of the long table, face obscured by a screen of cigarette smoke. Hunter took his seat with the other major Environment Liberation Front leaders, who were arguing as usual.

"We need more attention! Blowing up SUVs is not enough–"

"The _Front for the Liberation of the Environment_ has sent a boat to Antarctica to fight off the Japanese whalers. We can't let the FLE overshadow us!"

"What are we supposed to do, retard? We don't have a boat!"

"And what about the _Liberate the Environment Front?_ I heard the LEF burnt down a whole new housing development in the woods–"

"Please! Everyone just shut up for a second, dammit!" The Boss yelled, and amazingly, the room went instantly quiet. "Brother Hunter, what do you have to report? Where is Brother Bob?"

Hunter simply explained that Bob had a little too much to drink and was lying unconscious in the hallway. He then proudly announced the destruction of four Hummer H2s.

The news brought a loud cheer, but then the meeting devolved back into chaos again. They argued some more about how to outdo the competing environmentalist groups, and predictably got nowhere. The meeting eventually ended ("Hey! Hey, assholes – it's midnight!" The Boss screamed) and the delegates talked amongst themselves and milled about aimlessly.

"Brother Hunter, I need to speak to you," said The Boss, gesturing to a more private section of the dining room. Hunter followed.

"What about the… _other_ job I gave you?" Vanessa asked in her best secretive voice. She had once worked at the San Francisco Zoo, but was needlessly fired after she freed the tigers and lions from their cages. The short, fiery brunette soon after founded the Environment Liberation Front, and Hunter was one of its earliest members.

"It's done." Hunter answered. "I got twelve AK-47s and six thousand rounds of ammunition, and it's all waiting in that abandoned warehouse by the shorefront. I think our raid on the zoo will go just fine."

The Boss smiled. "Excellent," she said, her voice slightly muffled by the effort of keeping the cigarette clenched between her lips. Then, "those bullets wouldn't have _lead_ in them, by any chance?"

"Of course they do. They're bullets," Hunter simply replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, _which it was_.

"WHAT?" squawked Vanessa, and the cigarette fell out of her mouth and landed on the floor. "Lead is _poison!_ Don't you know that it hurts the environment? We need environmentally friendly bullets!"

"Yeah, but where the hell am I supposed to find non lead-based bullets?" Hunter said to the scowling Vanessa, trying to knock some sense into her. "Besides, don't worry; these bullets are _fine_! They're perfectly environmentally friendly."

"Even if they're lead?" asked The Boss coldly.

"Yes! You see, these are _magic_ bullets, and they only kill _people_!"

There was a short pause.

"You are so full of shit," she finally said to him with a snicker.

"Yeah… I know," admitted Hunter.

"Either that, or I need some of whatever you're smoking."

Hunter laughed, but he surprised his superior by answering, "Magic Pixie Dust."

"What?"

"Magic Pixie Dust," Hunter repeated, pulling the plastic bag of blue powder out of his pocket. "It's awesome – want some?" he asked as he handed it to her.

"What the fuck is this? Dish washer detergent?" Vanessa inquired as she opened the bag. She licked her finger and plunged it into the blue powder, causing some of it to stick. "What do you do with it? Snort it?"

"You can do anything with it. You can eat it, inject it, smoke it, whatever your depraved mind wants. Try it," Hunter urged. Vanessa stuck her Magic Pixie Dust covered finger into her mouth. Immediately, her eyes became perfect circles and her eyebrows shot up.

"Wow!" she gasped with an unusual amount of energy; Magic Pixie Dust put caffeine to shame. "That's some powerful shit! Where'd you geddit?"

Hunter smiled mischievously and his answer was short and simple:

"Hippies."

* * *

_Grindelwald should have won the war. Then no one would give a damn if a Yeti killed some damn Muggles, and I wouldn't have to do this damn paperwork!_

Unfortunately for Erick Schicklgruber, Grindelwald lost in 1945… badly. Though _Das Zweite Zauberereich_ fought like mad bastards, it was not enough, and the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was upheld. _Pity_… he had to write that report anyway.

Erick's sore hand scribbled an increasingly unintelligible account on Yeti Number Three's escape and its subsequent attack on the two soldier Muggles. It had to be _at least_ thirty-six inches long by now…

BAM! The door of his office burst open and there appeared Erick's boss, Mr. Escopeta. He was a short, swarthy dago who thought that any problem could be solved by shouting at it long enough.

"Schicklgruber! I need that report finished in an hour! How's progress?"

"I'm at three feet–"

"Write faster, you lazy _cabrón!_ It needs to be delivered on time for that ICW meeting in Luxembourg! And once you're done with that, you can help me!" Mr. Escopeta barked before leaving and slamming the door.

_"Arschloch_," Erick muttered. He had spent the entire previous day and night patrolling the yeti preserve _alone_, and he was rewarded by having to write a four and a half foot long report. During that whole time all Mr. Escopeta was doing was just sending angry letters to the homes of all of the Tibetan Magizoologists who forgot to come to work that day.

_No. They couldn't have all forgotten. It's too big of a coincidence; they must have planned it, some fiendish Tibetan-Yeti-Escape-Conspiracy, no doubt_…

_Those bastards! Naaagghh!_

He gritted his teeth in frustration and put his hand through his brutally short, blond hair. He sighed heavily, wringed his fingers, and continued writing…

Erick surprised himself when he managed to finish on time; it felt like his hand was going to fall off after all of that writing. The report gave details on the missing yeti and the two Muggles it brutally mutilated, and Erick made it abundantly clear that it wasn't _his_ fault. He delivered the report to Mr. Escopeta, who promptly grabbed his broomstick and headed outside.

"Try to find that yeti while I'm gone!" he shouted over his shoulder as he mounted his broom. He kicked off and headed east, in the direction of Lhasa.

Irate, Erick watched his boss disappear into the horizon. He then grudgingly took his Volksbesen 2005 and stepped outside of the office, a mud and plaster hut on top of a hill, in the middle of the yeti preserve, in the middle of nowhere. Greeting Erick was the cold morning air and the faint warmth of the rising sun. A vast expanse of barren rolling plateau stretched as far as his eyes could see, and behind him to the south were the giant Himalayas.

…And _somewhere_ within that huge area was Fat Angry Bastard, the escaped yeti. Plus, he had no proof that the other four yetis were still in the preserve; they could be anywhere as well.

"Crap," he said.

Giving up, Erick turned around and headed inside. He found his bed and instantly flopped onto it, asleep.

* * *

"Have a pleasant journey, sir," the ticket inspector said to him in smooth Luxembourgish. Nigel Zephyr thanked her in the same language and retrieved his stamped ticket from her hand.

Nigel picked up his suitcase, with the acronym _ICW_ engraved in gold on its leather facing. Leaning slightly to the right due to its weight, he walked over to the platform designated on his ticket. There was yet another ticket inspector, who stamped the piece of paper a second time, and wished Nigel a pleasant journey. "_Merci_," he replied again without a trace of an English accent in the language resembling a mixture of French and German. If anything, he sounded like a native Luxembourgish speaker, having devoted most of his adult life to the Confederation. Back home in England, people were surprised to learn that Nigel was in fact related to the rest of his family and not some foreigner with a curious accent.

With the ticket stamping ordeal over, Nigel secured his suitcase in the locking luggage rack, located behind the seats.

Nigel sat down in the middle of the large couch, which just happened to be an international Portkey from Luxembourg to Peking, scheduled to leave at twelve o'clock that day. Trans-continental Apparation was an invitation to Splinching, so that wasn't an option. Brooms were simply too slow, and the Floo network varied from country to country and had too many opportunities for error. That left the Portkey, the only safe and sane way to travel the almost six thousand miles to the Imperial City.

And that Portkey was an ordinary living room couch, three seat cushions wide, and with a floral pattern inlaid in the fabric. The couch was worn, weathered, and had several stains on it – a true veteran of many long-distance trips and errant users. Soon enough, six people were squeezed on the couch, all waiting for the clocks to strike twelve. The minutes ticked away…

Nigel was seated to the far right of the couch. Next to him was a bespectacled, pimply youth, reading Rita Skeeter's needlessly popular book, _Benjamin Dover: The Living Legend_. Unlike the youth, the other passengers were clearly experienced travellers and had nothing loose out.

Finally, the couch glowed blue and the cushions throbbed with buzzing, impatient vigour. An instant later, the large piece of furniture leapt into the howling and swirling limbo of wind and colour. All six passengers felt the familiar jerk behind their navels as the Portkey station around them dissolved, and their posteriors and backs were irresistibly glued to the seat cushions.

The couch recklessly ploughed through the whirlwind, blasting its way straight to Peking. The roar of the wind was deafening, and the dense air whipped into Nigel's face and peeled his eyelids open. Through his stinging eyes, Nigel saw the pimply passenger's _Benjamin Dover_ book yanked from his hands, and the book promptly disappeared behind them.

Even through the discomfort of the journey, Nigel wondered what fate awaited the book. Would it be forever stuck in limbo, to collide with other Portkeys passing through the air? Or would it drop out of the sky somewhere over Kazakhstan and land on the head of some befuddled Muggle?

Contemplating those endless possibilities kept Nigel occupied for the remaining harrowing minutes of the journey. He was abruptly brought back to reality when the swirling colours and wind were replaced by clear evening skies, and the couch suddenly crashed into the middle a bustling market square. Nigel managed to maintain his balance and not fly off once his body was unstuck from the seat's fabric, but others weren't as lucky. Some onlookers were amused by the clumsy foreigners who materialised in the middle of the marketplace, but they didn't have time to spare so they resumed their business.

Nigel retrieved his suitcase from the luggage compartment and set off in a brisk walk to his connecting Portkey to Lhasa; It was a distinctly awkward way to travel. There was no way to get to Lhasa directly from Luxembourg; instead of going through the trouble of charming a new Portkey, it was cheaper and easier to go to Peking first and double back fifteen hundred miles to Tibet. However, the convoluted travelling accommodations would not stop there…

If there was a single word that adequately described what Chinese commerce looked like, "chaos" would probably suffice. Nigel wound his way through the crowded streets choked with throngs of stalls displaying every kind of merchandise – a frenzied clash of different sights and sounds and smells. Fantastic jewellery and silks of every colour, dragon eggs, stacks of herbs, rolls of flying carpets. Hisses of fire and steam from eateries, permeating the air with entrancing scents. The incessant babble of customers haggling and vendors offering their merchandise the highest of praises.

Successfully dodging the hoards of ambushing salesmen, he worked his way through the marketplace to the other Portkey station offering local connections. Once there, he paid the ticket inspector.

Back home, Nigel was used to Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, but Chinese money made absolutely no sense. There was only one type of money, simply called _Cash_. This currency was made up of many kinds of bronze coins, all worth a certain amount of Cash. Some of the coins were small and others were large, but they all had in common a square hole in the centre for people to tie the coins into long strands with. But no matter the shape and size of the coin, it was still stubbornly called Cash and each coin was rather unimaginatively called a _One_, a _Five_, a _Ten_, or whatever the value of the coin was.

Even more peculiar was the sheet of paper that Nigel handed the ticket inspector. It was a tall, vertical sheet with images of Cash coins stamped on it, arranged in two columns. The idea of the paper note was that its owner could exchange the piece of paper for the same amount of coins portrayed on it – a ridiculous idea if Nigel ever saw one. The mere existence of those paper notes meant that there was some money that didn't exist at all, instead only being real in theory and without enough actual coins to back up its value. The paper itself was worth nothing, but for some reason the Chinese people thought it was as valuable as each sheet said it was.

No matter how strange the concept was, Nigel appreciated the fact that he didn't have to carry an equivalent amount of heavy bronze currency – there were a precious few silver coins in circulation, but those could hardly be called coins at all, instead resembling straight shaving razors or miniature meat cleavers. Nigel simply handed over the piece of paper and the ticket inspector took it without question.

"Your change, sir," she said in Mandarin as she handed Nigel some bronze coins in return. Nigel couldn't help but feel that he had cheated the woman somehow, giving her the paper sheet and getting some hard currency in return. But that was how things worked in the mysterious Orient, and if it worked in Nigel's favour, then so be it. He had important work to do.

Half an hour later, he took a worn chair to Lhasa, Tibet. Like his previous Portkey, it ended in the middle of a marketplace, but that's where the similarities ended. The Peking bazaar was bursting with life, but its Tibetan counterpart was almost completely deserted – the sun was barely setting, and business never stopped for a trifling thing like darkness. _Odd… Has the entire country shut down?_

Fortunately, he managed to make his connection within an hour from a sleepy Tibetan who clearly looked like he had better things to do. Nigel took a flying carpet with some other fellow travellers for a comparatively short journey of fifty miles. Below him, the fading countryside passed by and the cold night air whipped against his face.

Finally, Nigel made it. Looming in front of his eyes in a secluded valley was a multitude of lights, twinkling like so many stars. The lights grew bigger, and Nigel saw that they belonged to a forest of tall scarlet buildings with sweeping golden roofs, whose bright colours were visible even through the night. The buildings themselves were nestled in the nooks and crannies of the steep valley, which was abound with lush vegetation and waterfalls that reflected shimmering rays of light. It was a stunning sight, one that would only be more spectacular at daytime.

Welcome to Shangri-La.

* * *

"What's with the funny accent?" Vanessa asked Hunter in a hushed voice through the cigarette clenched between her lips. "Is he like, Canadian or something?"

"Nah. He's British… at least, I think he is," Hunter replied.

The two ELF leaders were standing in lonely, secluded alleyway. In front of them was the antecedent of the previous four sentences of dialogue, sitting on a wooden crate and reading a newspaper.

The Canadian/British/whatever man looked ancient: he had shoulder-length grey hair, large round sunglasses, and a wrinkled face. He wore a grubby trench coat with an impossible amount of pockets, all of which seemed to be stuffed with all of his worldly possessions. Perched on top of his head was a shabby wide-brimmed hat with a peace symbol badge and a large feather stuck in it.

"'Ello, 'Unner. What cann'I do fer yeh t'day?" he said to Hunter, peering at him from over his the top of his newspaper. He then only seemed to notice Vanessa for the first time, and added, "Eh 'Unner? Whooza' missus'?"

"Oh, this is Vanessa–"

Even behind those big sunglasses, Hunter could sense surprise and annoyance in the old man. He sighed, folded his paper into a rough square, and tossed it to the ground. Heavily, he said, "Blimey 'Unner, if yeh came fer relationship advice, I'm not the one ter ask–"

"No no, this is _Vanessa_, you know, _The Boss? Environment Liberation Front? _C'mon."

It took the man a long moment to process that. He puckered his lips slightly and waved his fingers in thought. Then–

"HA! Thas' you? Of course! It's a pleasure to meet yeh; me name's Bert!" he exclaimed as he stood up and doffed his hat in salute, briefly revealing a colourful bandanna with a sunflower pattern tied around his head. He offered his hand for Vanessa to shake, which she did.

"Nice to meet you too–"

"That was jus' classic! Jus' classic, lettin' loose those lions and tigers from th' zoo! Bet those poor kitties never ate freedom until yeh set 'em free! Yeh did a mighty fine thing that day."

Vanessa blushed furiously, but choked on a sudden swallow of cigarette smoke. The fag fell out of her mouth as she gasped, "Tha–thank you ver-y much-"

"Hee hee, I still have ter titter 'bout that one. Who'da figure? Big cats frolikkin' free as daisies at th' zoo…"

Bert muttered incoherently for a few moments before Vanessa's discreet cough brought him back to reality. "So, how cann'I be of service, ma'am?" Bert the aged Hippie asked as he seated himself onto his favourite wooden crate again.

The leader of the Environment Liberation Front composed herself, and replied, "Well, Hunter here introduced me to some of your rather interesting… _products_. I was wondering, do you have any that I could sample and buy?"

Bert smiled widely, revealing crooked yellowing and blackened teeth; his eager grey eyebrows protruded up from the top of his sunglasses.

"Well, 'Unner, yer a smart fellah!" Bert said, giving Hunter an invisible wink before addressing Vanessa. "If thas' what yeh want, yeh came ter the righ' place! So, whaddyeh' want? I've got Cannabis–"

As he was saying that, he was busy un-buttoning his massive coat. When the last button was pulled free, he opened his coat to reveal a forlorn tie-dye shirt in psychedelic colours that must have been at least twenty years old. With his other hand, he gestured to one of the many inside pockets of his trench coat.

"–PCP, LSD…"

He pointed to another pocket, and then another…

"…Dragon Breath, Magic Pixie Dust, whatever yeh want."

Vanessa paused for a long moment, observing the vast collection; she was clearly overwhelmed by the selection and unsure of where to begin.

"…Magic Pixie Dust I've heard of from Hunter, but what's _Dragon Breath_?"

Bert smiled his crooked smile. "Well, it's a _special_ invention o' mine. Yeh'd like a sample?"

Hunter, who was lazily watching the deal unfold, smiled fondly from the memory of the first time he had tried Dragon Breath – a vivid orange gas/liquid/no-idea-what-it-is that was drunk from a bottle. _Or was it inhaled? That would make sense, being Dragon_ Breath, _stupid_. His first swallow was like he had ingested the hottest hot sauce in existence, seasoned with gunpowder and napalm. But it was a _THRILL_, and Hunter could give no description that gave the effects of Dragon Breath justice: it had to be _experienced_.

Amused, Hunter watched Vanessa scream in a simultaneous display of pain and ecstasy. She dropped the bottle of Dragon Breath, but it didn't shatter thanks to Bert's hand that snatched it away to safety.

The dealer and his client did business for five minutes, which then turned to ten minutes, which then turned to half an hour. Long before that, Hunter had lost interest and instead eyed the newspaper Bert the aged Hippie had been reading, which lied in a tight folded square on the ground. Having nothing better to do, he picked it up and opened it.

The newspaper identified itself as the _West Coast Herald_ – Hunter had never heard of it, but he glanced at the headlines anyway:

**Three Witches Arrested for Performing Magic in Muggle Theatre**

_Witches? Is this a_ Wiccan_ newspaper?_ Hunter knew little about Wiccans, but he knew they called themselves "witches" and they didn't like performing whatever "magic" ritual crap they did in front of _normal_ people. Hunter didn't recognise the word "Muggle," and had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

His eyes hovered to another article, which read:

**Star English Quidditch Player "Attacked by Butterfly." Experts Fear Brain Damage**

Hunter suppressed a laugh. He assumed that "Quidditch" was some obscure British sport, but that's not what he found funny. _Anyone mad enough to play British sports to begin with_ has _to have brain damage. And what's with Cricket and Rugby, anyway? They're just imitations of American sports!_ _Plus, that headline is just weird._ _A butterfly? Seriously._

He flipped through the pages absentmindedly for a bit, but then a short article in a corner caught his eyes – it made them go unnaturally wide.

**Yeti Escapes Tibetan Beast Reserve!**

_Yeti? As in_ the _Yeti?_

Hunter had always suspected that the Yeti – just like the Loch Ness Monster – really existed, but only a few of his closest friends thought likewise. There was plenty of evidence to prove that the Yeti was real, but almost everyone Hunter had talked to about the subject said "it's a hoax" or "you're stupid" or something of the sort – it was as if there was some massive invisible hand operating behind the scenes, deceiving people by drawing them away from the truth despite the overwhelming evidence. But there is was, proof of the Yeti's existence, right in front of his face…

_Two days ago, a serious breach of Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy occurred when a yeti assaulted and killed two Chinese Muggle soldiers. The yeti was reportedly wounded by gunfire (small metal projectiles cast at high velocity by Muggle weaponry) in the attack, and the extent of its injuries is unknown. _

_The yeti was declared missing early Saturday morning, having escaped from Yeti Preserve Gamma, located in the Aksai Chin region in far western Tibet. The very dangerous beast is still at large, and seems adept at avoiding capture._

_This escape is the second to occur this decade, the previous one having happened in November 2005. The International Confederation of Wizards has called an emergency meeting concerning the yeti's escape and subsequent killing of two Muggles, and the deteriorating security in Tibetan–_

"Oi! Thas' me newspapah'!"

Suddenly, the newspaper was irresistibly yanked from out of Hunter's hands. "HEY!" he yelled in protest as he desperately snatched to grab it back.

Before he knew it – right in front of his eyes – Bert crumpled the newspaper into a ball and with a prod of some long thin (wooden?) lighter, the paper burst into flames. He let go of the glowing and smoking mass and let it fall to the dirty ground, where it shrivelled and blackened until only ashes remained.

Something was horribly amiss. Hunter watched on without seeing: his mind was convulsed with shock, disbelief, and awe at the revelation at hand. _International Confederation of Wizards… Clause Whatever of the Statute of Secrecy… Bert's startled reaction when I discovered the secret…_ the whole thing was practically screaming, "CONSPIRACY!"

Bert the aged Hippie casually reverted his attention back to a very alarmed and bewildered Vanessa to conclude their deal – he acted as if burning newspapers was something he routinely did every day as some disturbed hobby.

"So, yeh want yer pound of Magic Pixie Dust or not?"

* * *

**Notes**

**Environment Liberation Front:** I tinkered with different names for the eco-terrorists' organisation that had some _Harry Potter_ connotation, so I settled on the _Earth Liberation Front_ with the acronym ELF, of course alluding to House Elves. However, I later discovered when writing this chapter (to my dismay) that the ELF is an actual militant environmentalist organisation, founded in Brighton, U.K., in 1992. Rather than provoke the wrath of the aforementioned eco-terrorists, I sensibly decided to make the acronym stand for _Environment Liberation Front_ instead.

**Cash:** This refers to the old Chinese system of currency and also a kind of coin used for almost two millennia until the establishment of the People's Republic of China, which instituted the iRenminbi/i ("people's currency") as the official money, subdivided into _yuan_, _jiao_, and _fen_. Anyway, back to Cash… they were usually made of cast copper, and they almost invariably had a square hole in the centre so they could be strung together into long strings. My wizarding variant is a little different, but essentially the same thing.

**Wicca:** Just like Hunter, I do not know all that much about Wicca, and most of my limited knowledge of it comes from the internet. Wicca is a sort of neo-pagan religion, and its members do in fact practise "magic" and call themselves "witches."

**And now, an amazing preview of the next chapter…**

_"Don't worry if you suck at shooting. Just get to 'Prestige' on Call of Duty 4 multiplayer, then you'll be fine."_


	3. Chapter III: TwentyNine Goats

_When the worst happens and a Muggle sees what he or she is not supposed to see, the Memory Charm is perhaps the most useful repair tool._

-Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them, _ Magical Beasts in Hiding_, p xx

**Chapter III: Twenty-Nine Goats**

"Baahhh!" bleats the goat.

"Shooo!" Erick Schicklgruber hisses at the little ungulate coming approaching him. The Yeti Preserve warden is lying prostrate on the cold, rocky ground, concealed in a little rut. The goat comes closer and Erick motions for it to go away, but it pays no attention. "Blaaahh!" it bleats again.

A little ways away is the goat's owner, a short Tibetan Muggle man with a stick, tending to his small flock that swarms around him. The animals scour the rocks for whatever scraps of vegetation they could find, nibbling on dry, tangled fibres of stunted grass. "Baaahh!" the little goat standing by Erick says again.

The German lies dead still, waiting for his prey. Though Erick had flunked out of the _Deutsche Zauberaufgabe-Gruppe_, he still remembers stealth and tracking, or just the theory at the very least. To his perpetual shame, instead of fighting dark wizards, he is reduced to hunting yetis… or in this case, _goats_.

Completely oblivious to the waiting predator, the Tibetan goat herder ushers his charges with his knotted wooden stick closer to Erick. The Muggle and his flock stops about ten feet away from where Erick is hiding.

"Baah!" one of the goats shouts to the heavens through a mouthful of grass.

The short Tibetan sniffs his little round nose, and sniffs some more – Erick can sense a sneeze coming. The man fights the impulse, but sure enough, he squints at the sun, and…

"Ahh… pphhbbbttt!"

_"GESUNDHEIT!"_ Erick yells as he launches himself from the ground at the startled Tibetan Muggle. "Waaahhh!" he screams in alarm as Erick tackles him and throws him to the ground in a display of brilliant brawling. He had gotten rather good at that back home before he was relocated to Tibet.

_Thump!_ The Tibetan native lands on the rocky ground and grunts in pain. He tries to fight off the strange cloaked European man with his stick, but he is quickly disarmed and pinned to the ground by the stranger's knees. The goats scatter, bleating as they go.

Erick throws the Muggle's stick aside and pulls out a much smaller stick of his own. He grips the ebony handle of his wand and points it at the little man's face. The Tibetan gives up his struggle and awaits his fate in complete terror and confusion, his eyes crossed and focused on the wand almost touching his nose.

"How many goats do you have?" Erick asks in the broken Tibetan he had learned after working at the preserve for the last five years.

No response.

"HOW MANY?" he shouts. The Tibetan is simply staring in shock at the sweating and fuming Erick. The Muggle had clearly expected something much worse.

He finally stammers, "Th-thirty–"

_"OBLIVIATE!"_

The spell hits the Tibetan between the eyes; they become unfocused and his body goes limp. A few seconds later, he blinks lazily and mutters, "Twenty-nine… twenty-nine… goats… twenty-nine goats…"

Satisfied with his handiwork, Erick Schicklgruber stands up and releases the dazed goat herder, who is still mumbling the new census report for his flock. Erick takes his time picking out the biggest, fattest goat he can find, but that is easier said than done – they are all quite small and skinny. Without being picky then, he points his wand at the closest goat which had been bleating the whole time, and says, _"Stupefy!"_

The red spell strikes the goat in the flank, and it is knocked unconscious. Erick rushes to seize his prize and straps it to the back of his Volksbesen 2005–

A hand suddenly lands on Erick's shoulder. Quick as a flash (causing his neck to crack slightly), he faces the disturbance and discovers the Tibetan staring at him.

"Hello, I have twenty-nine goats," the little man says simply.

Erick smirks. "Of course you do," he replies while mounting his broom. He kicks off, and the broom sluggishly takes to the air, unaccustomed to the very non-aerodynamic lumpy hairy thing tied to the tail.

Erick follows the built-in compass to Fabby's last known position – another barren stretch of rocky wasteland. Predictably, the yeti is nowhere to be seen, but there are stretches of gravel imprinted with what looks like large footprints. Unable to tell which direction they are heading, Erick heads west on a whim, following the shallow pits in the ground.

Three hours later and after having doubled back to go in the right direction, he spots a shiny speck in the distance. A quick glance through his binoculars confirms his suspicions, so he heads towards the speck in earnest. He dismounts on the ground within two hundred yards of the yeti, and he unties and revives the goat he had stolen earlier.

"Baahaahh!" it protests once conscious, flailing its legs and trying to get out of Erick's vice-like grip. In the distance, Fabby the yeti is facing the other way. To get his attention, Erick calls out to him.

"Hey you! That's right, you! _Arschgesicht!_"

As if it understands, Fabby turns around and spots Erick shouting and waving at the beast with his free hand. With the other arm, he lets go of the captive goat–

"Raarrgghh!" Erick shouts at the animal, startling the goat which then darts away from him in the direction of Fabby. The psychotic yeti bellows at impossible volume and runs at the goat, and the little dumb (and oddly adorable) animal then turns around to run away–

"Not that way, you stupid animal!" Erick shouts at the goat, which is heading in the complete opposite direction that he wants it to go. Fabby will chase the goat and be led back to the magical creature preserve if everything goes to plan, but things obviously aren't.

"Wrong way! Come baaa_aack_… ach… _Accio goat!_"

The goat comes somersaulting through the air (_"BAAAHHH!"_), heading straight at Erick–

"Oh, shi–"

_Whump!_

"BHAAHH!"

The goat ploughs into Erick's chest, knocking him to the ground and his wand from out of his hand. Erick painfully lifts his head up and is horrified at the sight in front of him.

Fabby runs with its arms bared wide as if to embrace Erick and the goat, but the vision of sociability is spoiled by the wickedly sharp claws extended from its hands and the globules of spit flying from its booming mouth. The Yeti sprints towards the two sprawled on the ground, and is closing the distance alarmingly quickly. **"RAAAWWWRRRGGGHHH!**" Fabby roars, providing a good view of his menacing, serrated teeth.

_"HEILIGE SCHEIßE!"_ Erick screams in terrified vulgarity. His hairy companion leaps off his chest and bolts, quick as a… running goat. Erick scrambles considerably less quickly, trying to reach his wand before he is shredded into Hamburger hamburger meat.

There is a sound of thundering footsteps and grunting breaths behind him. In complete panic, Erick's eyes desperately scan the ground for his wand–

**"ROOAAARRR!"**

_"SCHEIßKERL! ARSCHLOCH!"_ Wand! Wand wand wand wand wa–

_There it is!_ Erick makes a mad dash for the little wooden stick, his only defence against the fifteen foot tall hairy butcher that is going to momentarily do what he does best. The wand finds itself reunited with Erick's hand, and pointed straight at the charging yeti–

_"PROTEGO!"_ he shouts.

WHAM! Fabby the homicidal yeti crashes straight into the shield charm with such force that Erick is blasted off his feet. The yeti staggers backwards a short distance and charges again, just as Erick summons his broom.

POW! The shield charm is hit by the hairy mass, but this time the spell gives way completely. The Volksbesen lands in Erick's hand, and he throws himself into the air without bothering to seat himself on the oak handle first. Fabby swipes with his razor sharp claws, but they only tear into the broomstick's tail instead of Erick's flesh. The broom staggers, but urged on by its rider, it shoots off with a sudden burst of frantic acceleration, leaving the furious yeti behind.

Erick flies back to headquarters without looking back. Fully aware of the alternative, he will be positively delighted to see Mr. Escopeta when he arrives.

"Baaahhhah!" the goat bleats happily, chewing on some dry grass and oblivious to the hairy yeti approaching…

* * *

"Okay, get this – it's brilliant – I know just what we need to do to steal the _Front for the Liberation of the Environment's_ thunder. Right." _Deep breath_, "You know how the Olympic torch is coming to San Francisco on April 9th, right? Right. So, what we do, is we round up, I don't know, like, seven goats or sheep or something. Then we _shear_ with an electric hair clipper our initials, _E.L.F._ on one side. On the other side, we shear numbers, but here's the absolute brilliant part – ready?"

The entirety of the Environment Liberation Front (consisting of eleven officers and one member) was less than enthralled to hear Chuck's latest scheme. The proposed use of woolly mammals made it sound interesting, though, so it scored points in the weirdness category.

"Right. What we do, is we get our seven sheep–goats–whatever, and we _number_ them one, two, three, four, five, six, and **eight.** So, when the Olympic Torch comes through town, we let loose the sheep in the middle of the street, and everyone watching national television will see 'E.L.F.' on the sides of sheep, but get this – they'll try to round up all of the animals… and they'll discover they're one short! Brilliant, right?"

Predictably, Bob had an expression of utter incomprehension, one that suggested that a turnip was far cleverer. "Huh?" he grunted in the most eloquent expression of his confusion.

Chuck's enthusiasm for his wild machinations knew no bounds, but his impatience for Bob's plain stupidity jockeyed to compete on equal terms.

"Right, Bob – you know how there are seven goats or sheep or what-not, but we numbered them one through eight, leaving out number seven? Well, the security is going to grab all of the sheep, but they're gonna' search for weeks for Sheep Number Seven, but the joke is, _it doesn't exist!_ Right? Geddit?"

"Huh?"

Not really under his breath, Chuck muttered, _"Christ, he's pathetic!"_

Nobody admonished him for speaking ill of his comrade. Jesus knew as much as anyone that Bob could do anything that required stupid brute strength, but was incapable of counting to twenty-one without first taking off his shoes and then opening his fly.

While Bob was left to himself, trying to contemplate the unfathomable sheep/goat plot, the others engaged in a heated debate over Chuck's plan. The Environment Liberation Front was an exemplary democracy, so everyone had a chance to shout at each other, and everyone had a turn to explain what was wrong with everyone else's ideas while arguing that their own plans were the best. It was pure, unadulterated and undiluted chaos.

The Boss put her foot down; quite literally, since her feet barely touched the floor when she was sitting in her chair. Once silence was attained, she removed the characteristic cigarette from her mouth and asked the Deputy of Furry Animals in her most casual voice, "Brother Chuck? What is the Environment Liberation Front's mission?"

"Well, that's obvious," Chuck answered obviously. "It's '_to piss off the powers that be in such a manner that they can recognise and correct the abuses against the environment's animals, plants, etcetera_.'"

Everyone nodded in confirmation – they all knew the mission statement by heart too.

"So, with that in mind, can you tell me what is fucked up with your plan?"

Chuck suddenly understood where the conversation was going, but that only served to paralyze his brain. It was now his turn to do a Bob and grunt, "Huh?"

With excitement, the other E.L.F. officers (plus one member) watched the show. Sure enough, Vanessa exploded.

"How would YOU like it if we SHAVED NUMBERS into that retarded head of yours and SET YOU LOOSE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET? I mean… fuck! You're abusing animal's rights to keep their coats, and you're putting them in danger of getting run over! What's wrong with you? We're the _ENVIRONMENT LIBERATION FRONT!_ Did you forget that already?"

Quite feebly, Chuck muttered, "_N-_no–"

"GOOD. Case dismissed. Now, does anyone have any better ideas? Anyone?"

"Hee hee hee," Bob either laughed or giggled, depending on how much respect the observer had for him.

"What the hell are you laughing at?" Vanessa asked Bob venomously. In reply, the sole E.L.F. member looked very pleased with himself and explained how funny the plan to misnumber the sheep/goats was.

"...The cops will be looking for goat number seven, but it don't exist!" Bob chuckled in conclusion.

There was a pregnant pause. In the end, The Boss gave up trying to explain anything to Bob and simply asked, "Where were we?"

"Plans?" suggested Hunter helpfully.

"Ah. Right. So does anyone else have any other ideas?" she asked. That was a rhetorical question.

Not at all to her surprise, Hunter raised his hand. "Yes, Brother Hunter? What do you have to say?"

Hunter said the immortal words that would eventually carry the Environment Liberation Front to greatness, surpassing all other eco-terrorist groups:

"My idea is simple: I think we should mount an expedition to Tibet to save the Yeti from the Chinese Army," Hunter proposed to his stunned comrades.

"What the fuck?" the appropriately named Dick retorted. "The Yeti? You've got to be shitting me."

Prepared for such an eventuality, Hunter launched into an explanation and left out nothing. He regaled the increasingly sceptical Dick and everyone else with the thrilling tale of his and Vanessa's revealing the previous night's encounter with Bert the Aged Hippie.

"…The Chinese Army attacked and wounded the Yeti, and what is being done about it? Nothing! The Yeti is out there trying to reach freedom, and the Wiccans and the Chinese are in cahoots to either imprison it or kill it! We can't let that happen!"

Of course, Dick remarked that Hunter had lost his mind and "needed to take some pills." Dick the Human Relations Chairman wasn't alone in his unfavourable evaluation of Operation Insanity, but he was the most vocal of the few sceptics.

"What Brother Hunter says is true," The Boss confirmed. "I was there too. Also, you should have seen Bert when he saw Hunter reading that Wiccan newspaper – he just _freaked_ out. It can't be fake if somebody could react like that." Truth be told, she had no idea what had happened the previous night until Hunter explained everything to her. Even then, it took some doing to convince her that the Yeti needed saving, but the others didn't need to know that.

"And besides, we need to do something _big_. Right now, everyone's talking about the fucking _Front for the Liberation of the Environment!_" Vanessa said scathingly, as if the name of their arch nemesis was poisonous. She then launched into her most potent argument. "Why? 'Cause they're the ones that sent a boat to the Antarctic Ocean to save the whales! They're out there shooting at Japanese whalers, and what have we done? Just light SUVs on fire – Sister Niki, how many?"

The E.L.F. Historian consulted her thick stack of notes and found the correct page. She answered, "Forty-two Hummer H2s, thirty dumpsters–"

"Right, that's enough." Vanessa interrupted, waving her cigarette in her hand impatiently. "The point is, we can't call ourselves self-respecting eco-terrorists if we let those F.L.E. bastards get ahead of us!"

The eleven officers and one member of the Environment Liberation Front agreed with gusto – even Dick yelled, "Damn right!"

Vanessa smiled. "So, everyone in favour of going to Tibet and making history?"

Dick's face fell and he mouthed some choice swear words. Reluctantly and against his better judgment, he eventually raised his hand just like everyone else. _Ha! Now you're not a nonconformist anymore!_ Hunter thought to himself, approving of the Human Relations Chairman's behaviour.

So it was decided. Taking advantage of the media attention already focused on the Tibetan unrest, the E.L.F. would go to Tibet and televise their rescue of the Yeti, after shooting any Chinese soldiers or Wiccans that got in the way. Once done, they would ascend to greatness that the _Front for the Liberation of the Environment_ couldn't hope to match! It was the perfect plan.

Easier said than done...

* * *

Tibet was never good tea-growing country. The highest nation on Earth was sparsely populated in terms of both people and plant life. Very little grew on the plateau, aside from a few stunted grasses and the very rare stunted tree.

Despite the rather poor showing of Tibetan horticulture, Nigel Zephyr wasn't the least surprised by the taste of the exquisite tea he was drinking. It had the most tantalising aroma and flavour of spice and sweetness – not unexpected, considering that the leaves came from the very gardens of Shangri-La itself – the lush paradise tucked into the Himalayas that Muggle explorers couldn't seem to be able to find, and very much the exception to Tibet's bleak landscape.

_Shangri-La_. Few witches and wizards even were fortunate enough to be able to visit the wonderful Garden City, or even drink its tea for that matter. The best perk of Nigel's job was exactly that: he could go to places other ordinary mortals can only dream of going, and drink tea to his heart's desire. He would have enjoyed his stay better if he didn't have such an unpleasant job to do…

The International Confederation of Wizards envoy finished his tea, and looked at the empty cup sadly. There were a few shrivelled tea leaves left at the bottom, arranged in a most curious pattern. _If only I'd paid more attention in Divination,_ he thought, fascinated by the limp, still, soggy forms that somehow conveyed images of swirling strife and motion in his head.

Nigel put the cup down on the unusually low table and looked around his room for the day. It was quite small, situated in one of the many narrow scarlet and gold towers nestled amongst the valley's trees, nooks, and crannies. The thick wooden plank ceiling was also quite low, having not been designed for people like Erick whose physique called for more headroom.

In spite of the somewhat cramped quarters, the room was quite richly decorated but sparsely furnished: the floor was covered in colourful rugs and the walls were adorned with intricate tapestries. For furniture on the other hand, there were only a few wooden chests and a low table – low because there weren't any chairs. Instead, he sat on a thick roll of woollen cloth that served as a cushion of sorts. He also slept on the floor, since his mattress consisted of several thick, soft blankets and pillows perched on top of a platform of rugs – Nigel had a sneaking suspicion that Tibetans were great at knitting but were horrible carpenters.

Nigel stood up from his seated position on the woollen cushion and ambled over to the double doors of his balcony. He pulled on the knobs and threw them open, and a rush of cool, crisp air blasted its way inside. He was definitely awake after that.

The sun was already up, but precious little of its light made it into the valley: mountains had an unfortunate tendency to do that. He could see enough, however, to fully take in his surroundings for the first time. The valley of Shangri-La appeared to be no wider than a standard Quidditch pitch was long. At the bottom of the narrow, winding valley was a stone-paved path that snaked its way around ponds, trees, streams, rocks, and waterfalls. Built into the cliff faces was a forest of gold-faced narrow red towers with sloping walls, perforated with clusters of windows and balconies. The roofs were cropped short and had flat platforms on top, with curious stubby gold spires at the corners.

Though the valley was crowded with buildings, gardens, trees, rocks, and streams, it didn't feel _cluttered_, somehow. Perhaps it had something to do with how everything blended into each other seamlessly, or the appearance of a natural flow to the landscape and its features, or maybe it was just the thin air Nigel was breathing. The place had a much very different feel from what he was used to in the West.

Nigel check his pocket watch, which had a globe in the centre, orbited by a little planets, the sun, and the moon. It was quite a good timepiece, since his current location was always depicted at the north position no matter where he was – the tiny bright sun was slowly moving in an anticlockwise direction. Judging by the angle (or just by reading the little number), it was eight in the morning. His appointment was at noon, so he had some time to waste.

He pocketed the watch (the model happened to be popular among not only travellers but also werewolves, since it displayed the phases of the moon) and returned to the warmth of his room to seek out his suitcase. He opened it with a prod of his wand and proceeded to change out of his pyjamas.

Once dressed, he headed out into the narrow hallway with a small briefcase of highly official documents – since the entire valley of Shangri-La was shielded against Apparation (making the place quite secluded, even by wizarding standards), Nigel had to walk. He inserted his wand into a small hole in his room's front door; once it recognised the wand's wood, core, and dimensions, the door locked itself.

The hallway was actually no more than a miniscule landing, crammed into a corner of the narrow tower. There was no staircase in order to save space: instead, it was replaced in favour of a sturdy escalating ladder – on one side of the landing, the ladder went down, and on the other side, it came up. Nigel firmly planted his feet on one of the descending rungs and held on to another, and the clanking contraption carried him to the ground floor. He passed several storeys of landings that folded against the walls to let him squeeze by. Faint streaks of light from narrow windows pierced the ladder shaft, revealing that the two ladders were in fact a single articulated belt, running in a continuous loop with gears at the top and bottom – _quite ingenious_, Nigel had to admit. He had never seen anything of the sort back home or in Luxembourg.

Once at the base of the tower, he ambled up the stone path that climbed in a lazy, meandering route up the valley. He couldn't help but stare in wonder at the fantastic scenery. There were more different kinds of flowers, trees, and bushes than Nigel thought existed – there were even some Nepalese Gravity-Resistant trees hovering over some rooftop platforms. They were probably serving as mobile shades, though they weren't really needed at this time of morning.

The more Nigel explored, however, the more he was slightly troubled by his surroundings. Just like in Lhasa, there was hardly a soul to be seen. The normally busy shops and stalls at the bases of the towers were virtually empty. Nigel only managed a glimpse of a few people flying from rooftop to rooftop on flying carpets, but that was it.

_Perhaps it's just early,_ he reasoned to himself. _Or maybe Tibetans have strange sleeping habits that I'm unaware of_.

He tried to convince himself that was the case, but his brain thought differently. He remembered Peking – that city _never_ slept. Though the people there would eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep, and work again in strange cycles, there was no set rhythm and there were always people to be found. The marketplaces would always be crowded, because doing business never stopped. The contrast between Peking and the lifeless Shangri-La was… _disturbing_.

After a few hours of sightseeing, he checked his pocket watch again. The little sun was approaching the top of its curved path around the globe: it was almost time. With that, he was on his way. A few more residents emerged, but the city still had that empty feeling.

The Tibetan Magic Administration was located at the far end of the valley. Quite unlike the skinny towers that populated the area, the Tibetan ministry headquarters had plenty of girth, spanning much of the narrow valley's width. The building's first few storeys of gleaming white stone were artfully overgrown in areas with climbing vines of some sort, and above that were a cluster of edifices in the characteristic scarlet and gold, topped with dozens of those curious stubby spires.

Framing the intricately carved doors of the main entrance were some words in fine Tibetan script, formed of horizontal lines with different scribbles dangling underneath to differentiate between different sounds. Nigel had no idea what they said, so he simply pointed his wand at the letters and said, _"Interpretatus_._"_

The horizontal line that kept the Tibetan letters together broke apart, and they twisted and rearranged themselves into English: _Tibetan Magic Administration_.

_Well, that was useful,_ Nigel thought. He had assumed that it would have said something more elaborate, judging by the length of the message when presented in its native language. Having ensured that the structure was not an impostor, Nigel pushed the heavy doors open and entered.

* * *

"Pass me that crowbar, will you?" Hunter said to no one in particular. Once an anonymous hand delivered the aforementioned weapon to him, he set to work attacking the wooden crate in the middle of the living room. He jammed the flat end under the lid, and jerked the crowbar vigorously back and forth–

_SNAP!_

Instead of prying the lid off, the crowbar simply took a bite out of one of the boards, leaving a neat, rectangular wound in the crate. Hunter swore. He tried his luck with the crowbar several more times before conceding defeat and calling for reinforcements.

"Hey, can someone help me? Don't just stand there!"

Bob was eager enough to make his mark in the epic battle between man and box. He took the crowbar out of Hunter's hand and wielded it like a miner would a pickaxe. With a mighty overhead swing, he plunged the crowbar's pointy part in through the wooden lid, and pulled. Several pine boards were violently ripped out and catapulted across the room.

"Whoa – Jesus! It's dead already!"

So it was. Granted, it wasn't the cleanest job, but most of the lid was been brutally amputated, revealing the crate's glorious contents. The expression on Hunter's face clearly indicated that Christmas had come early. His hands eagerly dived into the open crate and pulled out Communism's greatest contribution to the world.

_Thank God Mikhail Kalashnikov didn't invent lawnmowers instead!_ Hunter contemplated happily as he hefted an AK-47's authoritative weight. The dozen weapons in the crate (sans one in Hunter's hand) had the peculiar mixed odour of gun oil and straw packaging, but for Hunter, nothing smelled sweeter. He pulled back on the cocking handle and let go; the action returned to position with a smooth, satisfying metallic _snick!_

"Okay, everyone, gather round," he instructed to his E.L.F. comrades, gesturing with his free hand. "This is the _Avtomat Kalashnikova obraztsa 1947 goda_, and this is the gun we'll be using for our expedition to Tibet. It fires the 7.62x39mm Soviet cartridge with a magazine capacity of thirty rounds, firing at a rate of 600 rounds per minute. It has an effective range of–"

"Can you just cut the crap and shut up already?" interrupted Dick, bringing Hunter's gun monologue to an abrupt end. "We get it. It's a _gun_… that shoots _bullets!_"

For the third time in his life, Dick managed to make people laugh, but this time at someone else's expense. The E.L.F. Armaments Minister snapped back, "Look, Dick, you might not care what gun you're using, but it can be a matter of life and death! I mean, would you rather shoot this AK-47 or some crappy plastic AR-15?"

"I have no idea what the _fuck_ you're talking about!" Dick said with thinly disguised glee.

With Dick being Dick and Hunter being Hunter whenever he talked about guns, the two argued until The Boss thought it would be funny if she stuck her lit cigarette into the two men's ears.

"OW!" Hunter and Dick yelled, along with various obscenities. Unfortunately for Hunter, Dick managed to move his head out of the way so only his cheek made contact with the glowing white paper poker.

"Finished?" Vanessa asked the two irate officers. Once they nodded, she turned to the rest of the Environment Liberation Front and asked for questions.

"How does it work?"

Hunter answered, but his enthusiasm was dampened somewhat by The Boss's looming presence. Using one of the rifles and a spare magazine to demonstrate, he explained loading and firing procedure. Then there was the question of how to actually shoot it.

"I mean, I've never shot a gun in my life before," explained Jess, the Deputy of Leafy Plants, "so I can guarantee that I will suck at shooting, epically."

Of course, Hunter already had a plan. "Don't worry if you suck at shooting. Just get to 'Prestige' on _Call of Duty 4_ multiplayer, then you'll be fine." Hunter said.

"P-_prestige?_" Chuck gabbled, appalled.

"Yes, you heard me, _'Prestige'_."

Dick – _as usual_ – had to argue about that. "So, we're not going to even shoot the guns until we get to Tibet, then? You've _got_ to be shitting me!"

Hunter was cucumber cool. With infallible logic, he responded, "Well, it's not like we're going to shoot Kalashnikovs at a gun range – they're _kind of _illegal. Plus, we'll just be arrested, because we're notorious eco-terrorists–

"Damn right!"

"Yes, thank you Chuck. As I was saying… where was I?" Hunter trailed off. "Oh! Right. Also, we can't go practising in the woods, 'cause then we'd be polluting the environment with lead ammo, and we just can't do that. Remember, we're the _Environment Liberation Front!_"

"Brother Hunter's right," Vanessa added after taking a puff from her cigarette. "Besides, it's been statistically proven that kids who play violent video games become crack shots even if they've never used a gun in their life."

There was a murmured concurrence, and everyone nodded, except for Dick, who merely scowled. "So, no problems with the training method, then?" Vanessa asked…

Barely five minutes later, the four Xbox 360s in the living room hummed to life and in big, bold letters, _Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare_ appeared on the television screens. The Environment Liberation Front piled onto two big sofas (_Sofa King™ Big!_) facing the televisions of variable sizes, and they immediately went to work.

Unfortunately, each game console could only have one person playing multiplayer online, so two-thirds of the E.L.F. just sat and watched Hunter, Dick, Bob, and Vanessa play. Amazingly, Dick was more interested in playing the game than ranting about how stupid everything was. "I bet ten dollars I'll get to Prestige before you, Hunter," he called out.

"You're on!" Hunter said, accepting his challenge. "AK-47s only, everyone. No point to this training exercise if you use the wrong gun."

And so they played. With dozens of other people playing online, the electronic battlefield was an abattoir of total carnage. Bullets flying, grenades exploding, people dying left and right – boy, was it fun!

Hunter cleverly decided to hide behind a pockmarked wheelie bin, and he simply shot enemy players that ran by. "WOOT! Five kill streak!" he yelled after gunning down his fifth enemy in the course of one lifetime.

_Jesus has called in an air strike_, Hunter's television screen stated. Bombs plummeted on the enemy's position and some struck home, giving _Jesus_ another two kills – Ha! time to call in a helicop–

BAM! _You were killed by Your Mother!_

"WHAT?" Hunter screamed, aghast that he had been shot before he could call in for air support. Dick – the obvious culprit – was laughing his head off.

"Dick, you dick! We're on the same team!"

For the next hour, _Jesus_ and _Your Mother!_ spent more time killing each other than shooting at the enemy. Meanwhile, The Boss was having trouble with her controller.

"How do I walk again?" she asked exasperatedly.

"Left analogue stick," Hunter answered hurriedly, since he had _Your Mother!_ in his sights.

"And how do I jump…?"

Bob didn't have to worry about traitorous team members or remedial locomotion education. He simply jumped erratically all over the map, blazing away at everybody and everything. Apparently, Bob had never heard of a little thing called "taking cover," but that, extraordinarily, wasn't a problem. The enemy online players were so taken aback by the sheer stupidity of Bob's kangaroo impersonation that they couldn't aim at him properly!

_Bob has called in an air strike_…

Meanwhile, _Jesus_ was hiding behind the wheelie bin again. A Barrett .50 calibre sniper round punched straight through both the oversized dustbin and Hunter's computer-generated head. Dick was laughing for a twentieth time.

Discipline had totally collapsed. Not only was Dick a traitorous scumbag, but he was using the wrong guns too! Drastic situations called for drastic measures, so Hunter cheated likewise. He respawned armed with a M60 machine gun…

"Ha ha! **_RAMBO_** time!" he shouted insanely as he gunned down _Your Mother!_

_Bob has called in helicopter support_…

Bob was just raking in the kills, scoring more and more points. After a short period of twenty-four hours of non-stop video gaming, Bob was the first to make it to the coveted online multiplayer rank of 'Prestige.' Vanessa had given up after just one hour of frustrated electronic physical therapy, and Hunter and Dick were still intermittently shooting each other when they got bored with killing the enemy.

After a week of constant gaming, everyone in the Environment Liberation Front proved that they had no life by ascending to that exalted rank – everyone, excluding The Boss that is. Nobody was brave enough to point out that fact, so the E.L.F. was for all intents and purposes at the peak of readiness. The only thing delaying the start of Operation Insanity however, was a severe lack of sleep.

Even while half-conscious on the couch and slouched with the other sleeping E.L.F. terrorists, Hunter managed to shout, "Hey, Dick! You owe me ten bucks! Ha ha_aah_…"

* * *

On top of a small, rocky hill was a little hovel. Commonly seen around it was a flock of goats tended by the little man who lived there with his wife. The family rarely had visitors since they lived so far away from their closest neighbours, but today they had some unexpected and most unwelcome company.

Silhouetted against the morning sun, a black speck grew steadily larger and danced across the rocky horizon. As it got closer to the hut, the speck turned out to be two cars painted a greyish tint of green and driven by Chinese soldiers. The Tibetan woman looking out the window eyed them warily. Any Tibetan who heard the news of what happened in Lhasa a few short days before had to be worried about the Chinese army's intentions.

The BJ2022 Brave Warrior Light Utility Vehicles rumbled up the narrow goat path leading up to the house, scattering gravel and the goats that mingled about. As if preparing an assault, several soldiers leapt off their mounts and trained their guns on the door and the only two windows the hut possessed.

Major Chong Yi An dismounted from the lead car, which parked within twenty metres of the structure. A few soldiers followed him, but he motioned for them to wait outside, leaving only one officer to accompany him.

The Major opted to leave his combat fatigues behind: instead he wore his olive-coloured dress uniform that was so finely pressed that it looked like it would support itself if he was to take it off. His peaked cap made him look a few imposing centimetres taller, and his smart golden shoulder boards prominently displayed his silver stars of rank. He left his QBZ-95 in the car.

Accompanying Yi An was First Lieutenant Hwang Qing, who many in the garrison believed was a political move to uphold Mao's maxim that "women hold up half the sky." The Major knew better, since she was a handy shot with the QBU-88 designated marksman rifle, but more importantly, knew how to speak Tibetan, to a decent extent. Much better than Major Chong could, at any rate.

He approached the door and rapped on it a few times with his knuckles. Almost an instant later, the door was opened unusually quickly and framed in the entrance was a short Tibetan woman.

"Welcome," she said behind what Yi An knew was a false smile. She said something else that the Major didn't understand, but he deduced that they were being invited inside.

The two People's Liberation Army officers walked in, having to bend over slightly to clear the low door frame. The inside of the house was sparsely furnished, with a few woollen rugs and plain, low wooden table. On the plastered wall was a small portrait of the Great Helmsman Mao Zedong, which looked a little out of place – the woman didn't want to have any trouble, and took whatever precautions she saw fit.

Yi An turned to his companion and said, "Tell her the situation, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Hwang nodded and spoke to the short woman in heavily Mandarin accented Tibetan, giving the somewhat flat language a jumping, erratic tone. The native speaker blinked a few times and nodded and smiled nervously at the two Chinese officers.

"Ask her if she's seen anything unusual – anything pertaining to the deaths of the two soldiers on the Eleventh."

She did just that, and the Tibetan woman babbled something in response. Major Chong only caught the word "nothing," but that was enough.

"Can we speak to your husband?" the Major asked the Tibetan woman through Lieutenant Hwang. Judging by the expression on the native's face, that was a quite a probing question. Her eyes hovered over the pistols tucked discreetly at the two officer's sides before giving a slightly forced answer.

"She says he's not feeling well," Yi An's subordinate translated to him. "Say's he's quite sick."

_Hmmm…wouldn't she want medical attention for him, then?_ Major Chong voiced those thoughts aloud and he gave the Lieutenant more orders to translate: they still wanted to talk to the Tibetan woman's husband, and that they had the unfortunate but necessary duty to search the house.

"I'm sorry, but it is standard procedure. We can never be too sure," reassured Lieutenant Hwang. The Tibetan woman was visibly not thrilled by the prospect of having armed Chinese soldiers tear her house apart. After a shouted order from Major Chong through the door, a small squad of soldiers soon arrived; they checked under the carpets, opened wooden chests, and just proceeded to overturn everything not nailed down – that happened to be everything.

The native watched on in alarm. "Please stay calm," Yi An said to her, and Lieutenant Hwang reiterated that in Tibetan. "There's nothing to worry about if you've done nothing wrong."

The PLA Major reached to push a door – which presumably led to the only other room in the house – when he heard the woman's protest that came out more as a strangled squeak. Getting suspicious, he opened the door.

The sight of a short Tibetan man lying on thick blankets on the floor greeted him. The man looked healthy enough, but he was constantly muttering something that Yi An couldn't quite make out.

Lieutenant Hwang appeared and also spotted the muttering husband. "What's wrong with him?" she asked with concern.

"Well, I don't know – you tell me. What's he saying?" the Major responded, ignoring the Tibetan woman who was now babbling about something that he couldn't understand. The lieutenant listened to the man for a few moments, and answered with perplexity.

"He's saying 'twenty-nine' and 'goats' over and over again, sir."

Major Chong listened a little closer and understood what she meant. He just happened to add the words for 'twenty-nine' and 'goats' to his Tibetan vocabulary after that. Meanwhile the Tibetan woman had devolved into hysterics.

"She said that her husband has gone mad – one of their goats is missing, and he must have lost his mind after that," Hwang Qing translated.

_So, we have to deal with goat thieves _and_ murderers too?_ The man was staring at the low ceiling and showed every indication of being stark-raving mad; he was still muttering, "I have twenty-nine goats. Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine goats…"

"Tell her that her husband needs medical attention. There's something seriously wrong with him."

While Lieutenant Hwang tried her best to comfort the Tibetan woman (and none too successfully), one of the soldiers in the search party emerged from the other room.

"We found this spoon, sir," the private said, holding it out for the Major to inspect. With expert People's Liberation Army precision, the officer grasped the rough wooden spoon and examined it from all angles.

"Good work, soldier!"

"TWENTY-NINE GOATS!" screamed the Tibetan man suddenly. He launched himself from the blankets on the floor and tackled Major Chong, throwing him to the ground. _"Ta ma de!"_ the officer exclaimed in alarm.

The Tibetan man grabbed Yi An's shoulders and shook them while shouting the number of goats he had. The tiny room was a cacophony of screaming and swearing – then there was the unmistakable sound of a cocking rifle.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" the Major ordered over the screams of _twenty-nine!_ "Just get him off me!"

With the wooden spoon still in his hand, Major Chong wrestled with the crazed little man distraught by the loss of one of his goats. Moments later, several pairs of hands grabbed the screaming Tibetan and wrenched him off the officer. "Twenty-nine goats! I have twenty-nine goats!" the man shouted unceasingly, flailing his arms and legs.

It took the combined efforts of three soldiers to restrain him. He struggled against the plastic zip-ties fastened to his ankles and wrists for several minutes, but he eventually got tired and just muttered to himself incoherently after that. The wife took quite a bit longer to calm down, but she eventually did and just stared blankly at the Chinese soldiers crowed in her home.

"Well, _that_ was interesting!" remarked one of the privates rather stupidly.

Major Chong only nodded. His uniform was hopelessly wrinkled and dishevelled, and moist with sweat in areas. Deciding it was best that the Tibetan received medical attention (preferably a straitjacket), he radioed back to the base to send for the camp doctor. He then ordered Lieutenant Hwang to hold down the hut and wait for the doctor to arrive.

Having exercised his privileges of rank, Yi An left the hovel and seated himself in the front passenger seat of one of the two light utility vehicles. Another four soldiers piled on, and they drove off in the direction of home base, seventy kilometres away.

Once again, the boring, rocky terrain ambled by…

"Baaahaahhh!"

Major Chong was suddenly brought out of his dreamlike state and was most surprised to see a skinny goat trotting alongside the car, gamely trying to keep pace. He was suddenly struck by an amazing idea…

"Stop the car!" he commanded. The vehicle skidded to a halt, scattering a smattering of gravel. Major Chong Yi An swung himself out of the passenger seat and deftly grabbed the goat. He got back in, and the car turned around and headed back to the Tibetan man's home.

* * *

**Notes**

**AK-47:** Having described the weapon in the text, there's not much more to add. This is the world's most popular and prolific assault rifle, famous for its unparalleled reliability, durability, and completely idiot-proof design. However, designer Mikhail Kalashnikov has stated in interviews that in hindsight, he wishes that he had invented the much-less-violent lawnmower instead. In addition to his illustrious rifle, Mr. Kalashnikov also has his own brand of vodka and umbrellas.

**Call of Duty 4:** I have played this game exactly once, and I had the exact same problem as Vanessa in the story. Since simple things like walking and jumping easily defeat me, I avoid all games that require the use of a controller. All the information on Call of Duty 4 comes from my friends, who are millions of times better at playing video games than I am.

**And now, an amazing preview of the next chapter…**

_"Konichiwa. Sushi Mitsubishi Toyota!"_


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